Yea, I have looked, and seen November there; The changeless seal of change it seemed to be, Fair death of things that, living once, were fair; Bright sign of loneliness too great for me, Strange image of the dread eternity, In whose void patience how can these have part, These outstretched feverish hands, this restless heart?

All rooms ought to look as if they were lived in, and to have so to say, a friendly welcome ready for the incomer.

No man is good enough to be another's master.

It is for him that is lonely or in prison to dream of fellowship, but for him that is of a fellowship to do and not to dream.

Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.

That talk of inspiration is sheer nonsense; there is no such thing. It is a mere matter of craftsmanship.

By God! I will not tell you more to-day, Judge any way you will - what matters it?